Chapter 39: The Steward Market
Stepping out of Azenman Riantl's office, they turned the left corner and entered the third room down. It was normally a waiting room for Azenman's guests, but whenever Marhal visited, it doubled as a temporary lounge for his butler.
Azenman didn't fuss over his visitors, no matter how many there were—but he made an exception for Marhal's arrivals, issuing specific orders to those around him. The butler had been instructed to escort Marhal right to the office door, then wait here.
"Is it to your taste, sir? I didn't expect you to bring guests, Lord Marhal, so I wasn't able to prepare anything proper."
"It's fine. No different from what we have at home."
"An honor."
Azenman's mansion was decked out in noble splendor—and that made it the most comfortable spot for Bayola. The cultures of the Empire and the Duchy differed greatly, but what the powerful craved boiled down to one thing: self-display. She thrived most in rooms plastered with luxuries.
"So, what was that all about?"
"Asking him directly would be quickest."
Bayola still couldn't believe the scene she'd witnessed when the door opened. Azenman Riantl, head bowed low. What crime could he have committed to beg for his life like that?
Strekl didn't show it, but inwardly, he was stunned too. He'd met Azenman Riantl a few times before, on supply matters. The man had matched his reputation perfectly: cool gaze, flawless efficiency, every action and decision rational. His dismissal for embezzlement had been surprising, but surviving the postwar chaos after siphoning state funds? That alone was impressive.
But bowing to someone else? To Marhal? Strekl hadn't seen that coming.
Not that. Maybe because it's Marhal?
Marhal had to forgive those who begged it—that was his curse. If Azenman knew and bowed for that reason?
Ridiculous speculation. Strekl dismissed it as fantasy. He'd only learned the truth from Marhal himself. The man always justified his every action. That signature leisurely demeanor made you nod along, no matter what he did. You couldn't infer it from watching his daily life. If you could...
Then Azenman was someone who truly grasped how the world turned, enlightened to its depths.
Savoring tea, snacks, and a rare moment of ease after so long, Bayola turned to the man seated across from her. She knew his name: Hugo. Nothing more.
"So, who are you?"
"Hugo, ma'am. I handle various duties as Lord Marhal's steward."
"Steward? You mean landlord proxy?"
"Among other things—managing businesses and such. I oversee all of Lord Marhal's assets."
"I'm looking for a good steward myself. Any advice?"
"What kind do you want?"
"What kind?"
Bayola echoed. Were there types? She'd never heard that. Marhal hadn't mentioned it either. A glance at Rebella and Strekl—they shook their heads too.
"Plenty want the job. Most flaunt glamorous pasts. Their style shapes how your pioneer village grows."
"Not the landlord's?"
"Landlords meddling directly is ideal, but most don't. Some ignore stewards as long as taxes flow; others use them as messengers. Stewards pick landlords that suit them too."
"Complicated."
"Land and money are at stake. Can't afford slip-ups."
"If I name conditions, can you find someone?"
"Folks in the Border joke: with cash and connections, you could hire a Hero."
"Meaning?"
"West survivors, drawn by the hype—Border talent rivals the Empire's."
"A mere five-year-old land matching the Empire's manpower?"
That was Rebella. As an imperial, she couldn't agree.
"The West's fall killed many, but spared more. They gathered here—in the West and Border. 'Mere' five years? It's centuries of Western history embodied."
"This'll turn into a fight. That guy's gonna love it."
Rebella shut her mouth; Hugo cleared his throat.
"My apologies to Lord Marhal's guests."
"No, I was rash."
"You need a steward? What sort?"
"Not me. Her."
"Me?"
Marin, who'd been listening quietly, pointed at herself, baffled.
"So, who ya got?"
Bayola didn't need a steward—she'd opened this for Marin's sake. No need to hunt one herself.
"It's decent land. You can't manage it all solo, right?"
"Nah."
Winning land, becoming a landlord—that was Marin's dream. Beyond that? Nothing planned.
"Then you need a steward?"
"Yeah, but..."
She lacked the skills. Plus, she trained under Strekl now. She knew history—its power. Inheriting a high knight's lineage, a war hero's legacy? Priceless. Maybe rarer than being a landlord.
Marin was greedy. Without greed, no land race. Her superhuman strength could've earned easy cash, or her looks a rich husband. She wouldn't ditch landownership—or miss Strekl's training. Both meant a steward.
"Dunno what kind to pick."
"Happens. Most landlords start there. Border has a market for ladies like you. Wanna check it out?"
Marin eyed Strekl. Two she deferred to: Marhal, and her mentor-figure. Some knight lineages treated acts—or abstinences—like mage training, Strekl had said. If her choice clashed with his path's values, she'd pick one.
"Go. It won't matter."
"Got it."
The door creaked open—Marhal entered.
"Everyone good? Business here's sorted. Rebella, head to the church now? Sounds like they've got talent—your wound should heal fine."
"Yes."
"I'll move separately for a bit."
Following Strekl's words, Marin timidly raised a hand.
"Uh, me too... to the steward market."
"Right, Marin. Karian, tag along?"
"Me?"
"Can't hurt to see. You'll learn who's solid."
"Okay."
Karian, self-esteem in the gutter, nodded like a puppet.
"Hugo, swap the temp deeds while you're at it."
"Understood."
Paths set, the group parted outside Azenman's mansion. Strekl solo. Marin, Hugo, Karian to Union branch for papers and market. Marhal, Rebella, Bayola to church for the priest.
The Border tied to Strekl's past. He'd fought on the front lines, run ops nearby. The local city was his knight order's hub; he'd visited post-war too.
He crossed the Border. It felt like one city—few noted the line—but west and east differed in key spots. Like exchange houses: last stop to swap cash before the West.
Strekl meant to cash his land race checks. He needed money. No change, even without men. Checks were still assets.
A long line snaked before the exchange. But Strekl didn't wait. Cloak over armor or not, his bulk and presence stood out. A slight scowl parted the crowd; he reached the window fast.
Iron wall, tiny hole, barely enough for a hand through barred grating.
"What'll it be, sir?"
Strekl slid the checkbook in.
"All to Holy Empire gold."
Duchy gold fit geography; Empire highest value per coin. But stability? Holy Empire's, backed by faith—value rock-solid.
"Hm... Knight, sir, been away lately?"
"Problem?"
"The merchant house that issued these? Bankrupt."
"A major Union affiliate. Gone in my short absence?"
"Ear here."
Strekl pressed close to the grate. Any trick, he'd bend it and snap the man's neck.
"Special tip for a war hero like you. Empire Emperor drew steel for real. Heir apparent soon—sparked incidents. Rumor: one victim was this check's issuer."
"...Empire again."
"Yup. Empire bastards."
Accent pegged him Duchy native. Knew Strekl—maybe glimpsed him before.
Key fact: trusted checks now trash.
"Wish I could help, but... money matters ain't simple."
"Info's help enough."
"Good luck."
Strekl turned away, iron-gloved hand rubbing his face.
"Hah... World won't cut me breaks, huh."
He knew one moneybags who'd likely front cash. But last resort. No face left for more favors.
Hunt paying gigs?
High knight rank and strength? Quick cash easy. That evening, Marhal mentioned the carriage heist to him.